Contagious Page 86

Vanessa shook her head. “Mister President, I insist th—”

He pounded the desk with his right fist. “You insist? You insist? Who is the f.u.c.king president here?”

“You are, John,” she said quietly.

“That’s Mister President,” Gutierrez said.

Vanessa looked down. “You are, Mister President.”

“Do you know why I’m the president of the United States of America, Vanessa?”

She shook her head.

“One, because I’m smart enough to hire and listen to people like you. And two, because I’m smart enough to know when not to listen to people like you. The hardest decision is usually the necessary decision, and that decision has just been made. Now get out.”

Vanessa looked at Murray, then back at the president. Murray wondered if she was going to cry.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again.

“You . . . you want us to leave?”

“No,” Gutierrez said. “Just you. I need to talk to Murray.”

She did the double look again, first at Murray, then at Gutierrez who stared back, his face immobile.

Vanessa Colburn stood and walked out of the Oval Office so fast she almost broke into a run. The door shut behind her. Silence hung in the air.

“What about Montoya’s weather report?” Gutierrez asked. “Any luck finding this invisible satellite?”

“Not yet,” Murray said. “But we’ve got a lot of resources focused on it, sir. We’re trying to extrapolate possible locations. We’re hopeful we can find something soon.”

Gutierrez nodded slowly. He’d asked about the satellite in almost a perfunctory manner.

Murray calmly waited. He’d done this dance before.

“Am I doing the right thing?” Gutierrez asked finally. His stony expression broke. Murray could see the pain, the indecisiveness on the man’s face. “Murray, tell me straight. You’ve been doing this for a long time, right?”

“Yes, Mister President.”

“Am I doing the right thing, letting that woman die?”

“I don’t decide right and wrong. You do, sir. I just give you the information to make decisions, then carry out those decisions.”

“I see. And does that gigantic line of bulls.h.i.+t help you sleep at night?”

“No sir,” Murray said. “But a Xanax or two sure as h.e.l.l does.”

Gutierrez sank back in his chair. He drained the gla.s.s of scotch, then set it down so hard that one of the ice cubes shot out and skidded across the desk. Murray walked to the drink cart, grabbed the bottle of Macallan, then poured the president a double.

“If it’s any consolation, Mister President, it makes me very proud, and very hopeful, that this decision is so hard for you. I’ve served five presidents before you. For some of them, I watched decisions like this become . . . become easy.”

Gutierrez stared at Murray for a second, then raised the gla.s.s in a salute. “Thank you, Murray. Now go take care of this.”

“Yes, Mister President,” Murray said, and walked out.

BOXERCISE

Margaret paced in the computer room, which was tough to do considering she could only walk about five steps before she had to turn a 180. The PVC fabric on her legs zip-zipped as she walked. She was still wearing the suit, sans helmet, in order to save time when she had to go back in for surgery. Dew was already out of his. She’d never seen him in scrubs before.

Clarence walked into the control room.

“Did you reach Murray?” she asked. “Is it okay with him if we go ahead and save this woman’s life now?”

Clarence looked at Dew, then back at her.

“What’s the problem?” she asked. “Come on, guys, chop-chop. Time’s a-wastin’.”

Dew looked at the floor. Clarence’s face was a blank.

“You can’t operate,” Clarence said.

“What are you talking about? We’ve got everything we can get from her.”

“Not everything,” Clarence said. “Not yet.”

She stared at him for a moment. Understanding flared up, but part of her fought it down. She didn’t want to believe what she was hearing.

“You . . . Clarence, you can’t be serious. You don’t think we’re going to let those things hatch out of that woman, do you?”

“We have orders,” he said.

Clarence had known what Murray’s answer would be. That’s why he’d insisted they wait, delay the surgery. If he hadn’t fed her that bulls.h.i.+t about keeping people in the loop, she’d already have Bernadette Smith on the operating table.

Margaret had heard the phrase seeing red. She’d understood it in theory, but she had never actually seen red. Until now. A rage exploded inside her like nothing she’d ever felt.

“We are not going to let that woman die!”

She took two steps forward and started jabbing her finger into Clarence’s broad chest. She could have also screamed at Dew, sure, but she’d almost expected this from a cold-blooded killer like him. But from Clarence? A man she’d made love to? “That woman has a ten-year-old son who just lost his father and two sisters. I can save Bernadette, I know it. We are going to operate on her, and right now, you rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Do you hear me? Right now.”

Clarence shook his head. “We can’t, Margaret.”

“That’s Doctor Montoya to you, a.s.shole. Doctor. As in sworn to protect life.”

“We have orders,” Clarence said.

“Orders from who? From that slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d Murray Longworth? From Ogden? From him?” Margaret pointed at Dew, who kept staring at the floor. “Who the f.u.c.k thinks they can order me to let this woman die?”

“The president,” Clarence said quietly. “It’s from the top. Executive order.”

“Is that right? Well maybe he can order you to gas some Jews while you’re at it! How about that for following orders? Or maybe he can order Dew here to tie up some n.i.g.g.e.r and give him a whippin’ just to set an example!”